


Living in a Box

by Darksidekelz



Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Characters slowly going mad, Graphic descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 07:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10759155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darksidekelz/pseuds/Darksidekelz
Summary: No sight, no sound, completely deprived of all senses - how does Vortex cope with his confinement?





	Living in a Box

Okay.  This ain’t so bad.  I mean, I’m absent one body – I can’t see or hear, feel or taste or touch or smell.  It’s like my worst nightmare come to life, and y’know?  Can’t say what I was ever scared for.  I mean, the spark stabilizers are probably to thank for that.  Don’t want the prisoner’s spark to implode from the effort of overcompensating for the lack of a frame . . .

To be honest, I’m not entirely sure why I can still think at all.  I’m pretty sure my brain module was scrapped along with the rest of my frame.  Guess the spark is where the personality lies.  Who needs a brain?

Well, that or the box’s got a built-in brain in addition to all the other shit it does.  Primus, I hate this box.  This is gonna be a long confinement.  Twenty thousand years for profiteering behind Lord Megatron’s back.  It’s not like the walking scrap sucker’s even still around.  Been gone for what?  A million years now?  Time for Shockers to move on.  But nah.  Still gotta play the loyalist – _ Primus _ , get over yourself.

Ugh.  

It’s been what, ten minutes?  I guess?  It’s hard to tell without a frame.  I swear, I’m never gonna take my frame for granted again.  Gonna treat that thing right.  Take it flying more often, stretch my rotors, eat well, sleep well, get all the interface I can get.  Yeah.  I mean, flying aside, I was doing all that before.  Not a lot of room for flying in the Underground.  Or the aboveground really.  You ain’t in a flyer-friendly city, you may as well be grounded. 

Not that I hated Kaon.  Kaon was nice.  Have a lot of good memories of Kaon.  Good people.  I mean, they were all a bunch of criminals and thugs, but they were  _ my _ criminals and thugs.  They know how to treat a down-on-his-luck baby warframe on the run. 

And I mean, life with Onslaught was nice too.  So many doors opening.  So much  _ power _ .  There was a time when Ons was the most powerful mech on Cybertron, I’d reckon – certainly more so than any senator, and as his left arm, I got to reap the benefits.

Maybe we got a bit too complacent though?  We shoulda realized that nothing lasts forever, least of all power.  No one can sustain a life at the top.  We had our time in the sun.  Not that Ons was ready to let go of his glory days.  And Blasters and me?  Well, we were along for the ride.  And Brawl.  And Swindle, apparently.  Whoda thunk  _ Swindle _ of all mechs, would get himself wrapped up in our drama?  Almost makes the whole thing worth it.

. . .

Primus, this is boring. 

It’s like being locked up in that damn tower all over again.  Only worse.  At least I had datapads up there.  I mean, you can only reread every book Helex can access so many times before it loses its appeal.  But the guards were interesting to – er, look at.  Bah!  Stupid baby Vortex didn’t know how to make the most of a good situation.  I never woulda wasted the opportunity  _ now _ .  Every prison I’ve been in since had been  _ way _ more fun.  Cell mates, guards, security cameras – there’s always  _ someone  _ to get a rise out of.

Well, except this time.  Leave it to Shockwave to fuck up a good thing.

Eh, anyway, I’ve been in solitary confinement before.  This – I mean, it’s a little  _ more _ solitary, little more confining, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.  I just gotta work through it.  Twenty-seven thousand years.  That’s nothing.  The end is in sight.  Run some sub-processes, get a count going. It’ll be easy.  Only fifteen billion, twenty-two million, seven hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety minutes more to go.

~~~

DAY TWO:

Figured I’d label my entries to better keep track of them.  Not sure if they’re being stored in my spark itself, or just on the spark box’s processor, but who really cares?  The point is, I’ve got a system for archiving, which I forsee being pretty handy in the long run, once the loneliness really starts to eat at me.  Then I’ll have lovely memories to go back to and reread at my leisure.  If I can hold out for long enough, I’ll be able to spend the latter half of my confinement reliving the first half.  Not the worst idea.  By the time I get there, I’ll have forgotten all this stuff anyway.  I could probably get away with doing it a third or fourth time if I have to.  Twenty-seven thousand years is a long time.

Well, not for  _ us _ , but objectively.  It’s only been one day, and not having any stimuli is more challenging than I anticipated.  Maybe I’ve just grown weak over the last couple thousand years.  In the beginning, I coulda done it, but then I tasted pleasure, and I tasted pain.  I tasted that look people get when you get ‘em all riled up, and the screams a mech makes when you cut  _ just _ the right wires.  The desperate way they beg when the end is near, and that cute little moment of surprise when you turn the tables on them. 

I’ve tasted attachment and longing and desire – I’ve  _ wanted _ things!  I  _ love _ wanting things!  And I miss it.  I miss the fun me and Brawl would get up to.  I miss pretending to play Onslaught’s game of wits, and I miss Blast Off always keeping an optic out for me, then acting all tough like, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Vortex.’  ‘Stop being so full of yourself, Vortex.’  It was nice.  I liked that.  I liked that he cared.  Not a lot of folks do.

Ugh, it’s best not to think about things like that.  I don’t got buddies anymore.  I just got this – this empty box and three thousand years of memories.  Maybe if I replay my life from the beginning to now, I could kill some time.

Eh, I’ll do it if I get desperate, I guess.  I’m good for now.  I’ve had worse than this.  Well, no, but I’m going pretend that I have.  If I pretend hard enough, maybe I’ll start to believe it’s true.

~~~

DAY SEVEN:

I’m slipping already.  I don’t like not existing.  It’s terrible.  Wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemies.

Hah!  Who am I kidding?  I’m  _ totally _ using this in the future!  I’ve barely scraped through seven days of this nonsense.  I’d love to see how a weaker mech would pull through.  Better make note of that somewhere.  I can’t imagine I’d forget it, but you never know. 

Though come to think of it, the others can’t be doing much better.  Well, maybe Blast Off.  He’s a shuttle; I bet he’s used to not being able to see/hear things.  But Onslaught?  How’s he supposed to cope when there’s nobody to lord over?  I bet he’s just sitting in his box, hyper-fixating on every decision he’s made in his life to get him to this point.  Yeah, that sounds like him.

And Brawl . . . Primus, I can’t imagine what Brawl’s doing right now.  Crying, probably.  Poor guy never learned how to entertain himself.  Not like me.  I’m a master of entertaining myself.

_ If I say it enough, it’s true! _

But it’s fine.  The damned box keeps me stable; I can last a couple hundred years at this rate, and then we’ll move on to the contingency plans.  It’s a bit earlier than I’d like, but hell, we do what we have to.  I’ll figure out where to go from there once I reach that point.

~~~

DAY TWENTY-SIX

There we go.  Half a month already.  Look at me go!  I’m beyond bored, but still holding strong, and that’s all that matters in the end, isn’t it? 

Yes it is!

But anyway, I think I’m gonna take a page from Onslaught’s book, and dwell on the past for a bit.  Not call the memories up to relive it.  I’m not that far-gone yet.  But y’know, just . . . think things over a bit.  Imagine what coulda been.  Things like that.  We’ll see how long it can keep me entertained.

Like, I mean, I don’t really have too many memories of bein’ a Protoform – more than most bots probably.  Spark’s not usually developed enough to save new experiences to those cute little memory drives.  Takes something traumatic to get through.  Something like murdering a couple of your batch mates. 

Aww, I was so cute.  Permanently fragged in the head, but cute.

Not my fault they couldn’t play rough.  Protoforms are just so squishy.  And usually don’t come equipped with the ability to generate tornadoes.

Note to self: use that ability more often.  Lots of bots would kill to be an outlier.  They just wanna be  _ special _ .  Hah!  Being special is a joke.  Normal folks wanna be special, special folks wanna be normal – is there  _ anybody _ happy with who they are?

But I digress.  Didn’t have a whole lotta choices I coulda made as a Protoform, which is a damn shame, ‘cause I think most of the worst shit in my life happened back then, and I didn’t even get the joy of being the bot at fault.  Not like I chose to be a weapon of mass destruction.  And every choice I’ve made since brought me nothing by happiness.  Defecting, my street jobs, learning to fight, all the fun I had in all of those back alleys, joining up with Ons.  It was all good.  On the whole, I’ve had a pretty sweet life.

Maybe it had to balance out?  Things were going too well, so I had to be taken down a peg?  The universe remains in balance; thank you for your sacrifice, Vortex.

The universe can choke on the engorged spike of Omega Supreme, and die.

~~~

DAY ONE HUNDRED

Primus, I’m bored.  Primus, I’m bored.  Primus, I’m bored.

~~~

DAY ONE HUNDRED SIXTY-SEVEN

Is it possible to die of boredom?  Primus, I think I might die of boredom.  There’s nothing to  _ do _ in this damned little box.  It’s only been one hundred sixty-seven days!  One hundred sixty-seven.  Out of five  _ million _ , seven hundred seventy-eight thousand.  This is – I can’t deny it.  This is absolutely, one hundred percent the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.  How am supposed to get through this?  How is  _ anyone _ ?

Frag it!  I’d go back to the military in a flash; I’d become a weapon of mass destruction; I’d stay in my tower all day every day and read my data tablets and never complain; I’d let them use me for my wind tunnels and then lock me up and throw away the key, if I could only  _ feel _ , again!  Primus, what I wouldn’t give to feel again!

I can’t do this.  How am I supposed to do this?  I can’t do this.  I can’t, I can’t, I can’t . . .

~~~

DAY ONE HUNDRED SIXTY-EIGHT

Wow, that was really embarrassing.  Heheh, I can’t believe I broke down like that, hah!  Silly Vortex.  You’re stronger than some simpering little coward desperate for any kind of feedback.  Hahah, look at you.  You’re not pathetic.  You’re the one who makes  _ other _ mechs pathetic.  But it doesn’t happen to you.  You don’t give hot slag  _ what _ happens to you; you’re fuckin’  _ Vortex _ !  Your designation is synonymous with not giving a damn.  Don’t start now . . .

Primus, what a pathetic mech you turned out to be . . .

~~~

DAY TWO HUNDRED FOURTEEN

One year!  One year, you old-model, long-fractured, defective snapped-off frag-sticks!  Take  _ that _ , Shockwave!!!  I survived a whole slagging  _ year _ !  I can survive another twenty-six thousand nine hundred ninety-nine!  I may be an empty husk of a mech by the end of it (hey, my frame’s  _ already  _ an empty husk, isn’t that funny?  I mean, it would be if it still existed . . .), but yeah.  I’m gonna win.  And then I’m gonna come for you, and I am going to remind you exactly why I was so feared in Kaon’s underground.  You’ll come to understand why no one ever crossed Onslaught in his prime. 

I’ll give you a hint: it wasn’t  _ Onslaught _ they were afraid of. 

Yeah . . .

I’m gonna get out of here, and I’m going to recalibrate Shockwave’s sensory systems – turn them up to one hundred, turn pleasure to pain, and pain to agony.  I’m going to cut each and every one of his hydraulic lines, until he is left immobile, at the mercy of his slaves.  I’m going to loop his optical input, until he is so burdened by incoming visual data that he can’t look at an empty wall without purging.  I’ll get into his brain module – cross his memory circuits, plug his every shame, his every disappointment, into each and every moment of joy and triumph.  I will delete him, one thought at a time, until he is a shell that cannot even remember its own name.  I will become the weapon I was always meant to be, and I shall destroy the empire that he has built in Megatron’s absence.

And then, once that’s all said and done, I’ll stuff him in a spark box.   _ My _ spark box, in fact.

And I will laugh.

~~~

DAY TWO HUNDRED FORTY-FOUR

My room in Onslaught’s tower was so nice.  Shame I never spent much time there.  That berth was amazing.   _ Fully _ adjustable; can you imagine?  I don’t like laying on my back very much; it’s hard on the rotors, but on  _ that _ thing?  Full support!  Amazing!  Why did I never use it?  I should’ve appreciated it more.  I should’ve invited Blast Off to share it.  I bet he would’ve liked me more if I’d invited him into such a comfy berth.

~~~

DAY TWO HUNDRED FORTY-FIVE

You know what else was nice?  The drapery.  Like, I’m not usually one to care about aesthetics, but that shit was nice.  Just like, so flowy and soft.  And they made the most delicate little tinkling sounds in the breeze.  I always had my window open.  It was nice to feel the breeze on my rotors.  It was almost like flying.

Well, not really, but as close as I was gonna get in Kaon.

They were blue, I think.  Or maybe violet?  Man, who cares.  I don’t care about aesthetics.  The point is, they were pretty.

~~~

DAY FOUR HUNDRED

I liked the fountain in the lobby.  That was like – what was it Ons had it filled with?  Like, some weird alien substance – dihydrogen monoxide, I think it was.  Not like lilleth oil, which most fountains run on.  It was strange – cold, and with an alien texture.  Stuff beads up on a frame, drools down it – like energon, but less viscous.  Nothing compares.  And it doesn’t have a smell either.  How uppity is that?  The answer?  Very.

Heheh, sense of smell is underrated.

~~~

YEAR TWO, DAY ONE

New format!  Makes it feel like I’ve accomplished something.  Two  _ years _ of sensory deprivation.  I feel – I dunno, like, at one with myself.  That’s pretty cool, yeah?  Never knew myself half so well until I had nothing else out there to distract me.  Heheh . . .  I can do this.  I’ve made it this far.  I’ll be fine.

~~~

YEAR THREE, DAY TWENTY-ONE

Brawl was always the best pillow.  I think I stayed the night in his habsuite more than in anyone else’s.  He just like, like he had that nice little divot between his generous chest plate and like, his equipment.  I mean, don’t get me wrong; his equipment was very nice too, but that divot was perfectly me sized.  It was so nice to crawl up in there and doze.  Except when he’d forget I was there.  He’d sit up suddenly, and then I get to spend the next few hours un-denting my rotor hub.  Still, it was worth it.  Especially when he’d rest his big ol’ tank hands on my back.  It felt I dunno, safe, I guess.  You don’t get that a lot when you’re a normal-sized flight frame surrounded by giant warmechs. 

Like, I’m a warmech too, sure, but only by technicality, as in,  _ technically _ medic-class helicopters are used in wars.  And we’re not exactly fragile, but compared with your average front-liner or Seeker, we’re damn squishy.  And slow.  And not big on the firepower.  Or in other words, practically useless in combat.  We’re just supposed to fly in, stabilize injured mechs, and then get them to the  _ real _ doctors.  Not actually a job with a high survivability rate, y’know?

_ Who am I even talking to, haha? _

So yeah, I’d never tell  _ them _ this, but, it was kinda hard being in that position, knowing that any of your allies could easily crush you if you ever let your guard down for a moment.  You gotta constantly be thinking ahead; gotta be a pro at reading people, finding all the red flags, predicting your opponent’s moves.  Gotta be smart, cunning, and ruthless; never weak.  You show them weakness, and suddenly you’re just another pathetic little deluxe class that needs protecting.  At  _ best _ .  I think that’s how Blast Off always saw me.  Aft.  Never liked him.

I was better than any of them.  Worked twice as hard for half as much credit.  Onslaught always treated me like an idiot, belittled me, mocked me, because he  _ feared _ me.  Brawl didn’t have enough wits to even know he was playing the game.  But he  _ still _ got the respect.  Because he was a tank.  You didn’t disrespect a fucking  _ tank _ .  That would be dumb.

Swindle was fine.  Swindle knew what it was like.  Swindle was even smaller than  _ me _ .  Like, I’m not small; I just hang out with a lotta big guys, y’know?  But Swindle?  He was  _ tiny –  _ as small as you can get without being reclassified as a Minibot _.   _ And he was a master manipulator.  Maybe I shoulda gotten to know him better . . .

But uh, yeah.  Brawl made a good pillow.  I miss that . . .

~~~

YEAR FOUR, DAY TWO

My room in Onslaught’s tower was so nice.  Shame I never spent much time there.  That berth was amazing.   _ Fully _ adjustable; can you imagine?  I don’t like laying on my back very much; it’s hard on the rotors, but on  _ that _ thing?  Full support!  Amazing!  Why did I never use it?  I should’ve appreciated it more.  Bet it woulda been a hit with the frag mates.  I mean, most of ‘em probably had the same setup, but heh, whatevs.  Who wouldn’t wanna spend the night with  _ me _ ?  I was a fuckin’ legend.

. . .

Wait, did I do this one already?

~~~

YEAR FOUR, DAY NINETY-NINE

I’m running out of things that I remember liking.  Not a bad strategy though.  Got me through, like, two years. 

. . .

Primus, I’m never gonna make it.

. . .

What happens if I don’t make it?  Like, I can’t die in here, barring a hardware malfunction.  Do I just like, go crazy?  What would that even entail?  I’m  _ already _ crazy.  People call me the psycho copter (Creative.  I’ve  _ never _ heard anyone describe a rotary mech as psychotic before). 

. . .

I guess I’ll find out one way or another, won’t I?

. . .

I wonder what Blast Off’s doing?

~~~

YEAR TEN, DAY ONE

Ten years.  Ten years.  Ten years. 

. . .

It feels hollow.  Congratulations Vortex.  You’ve been a spark in a box for a whole decade.  How do you feel?

How do I feel?  I feel like I want my fraggin’ body back.

Primus, how am I supposed to get through this?

~~~

YEAR TWENTY-ONE, DAY FORTY-SEVEN

I wonder how well these spark boxes are made.  Do they receive regular maintenance?  What are the chances of a malfunction?  What are the chances of death in the event of a malfunction?  Can I force a malfunction?  Maybe if I force myself into a panic for long enough, I can overload the stabilizers.  Worth trying . . .

~~~

YEAR TWENTY-ONE, DAY FORTY-EIGHT

. . . Frag!  Frag!  Frag!  Frag!  Frag!  Frag! . . .

~~~

YEAR TWENTY-ONE, DAY FORTY-EIGHT

Primus, I want to go home.  I want to go home.  I want to go home.  I want to go home.  Just let me go home.  I want to go home.  Where even is home?  Who cares?  Just take me there.

~~~

YEAR TWENTY-ONE, DAY FIFTY

No, no, no, please!  Let me out!  I promise, I’ll be good!  Please, I can’t take it anymore!  I’ll never kill another mech again!  I’ll never question Lord Megatron, or Lord Shockwave, or who the friggity frag  _ ever _ !  Just, please, let me out.

~~~

YEAR TWENTY-ONE, DAY FORTY-EIGHT

Blast Off, please help me.  You saved me once before.  Please, you know I hate to beg, but please.  I just . . . I can’t do this on my own anymore.  Blast Off?  Where are you?

_ Primus, _ I need you.

~~~

YEAR TWENTY-ONE, DAY FIFTY-SEVEN

. . .

. . .

. . .

~~~

YEAR TWENTY-ONE, DAY FORTY-NINE

In conclusion, two days of panic were not enough to break the box.  It felt like a lot longer, somehow.  I don’t think I could have handled any more.  I don’t . . . I don’t feel so good.

Maybe I should . . .

~~~

YEAR TWENTY-ONE, DAY FIFTY

. . .

. . .

. . .

~~~

YEAR TWENTY-ONE, DAY FIFTY

Something doesn’t seem right here.  Maybe I broke my box after all?  I feel like I was just saying something but then I like . . . stopped?  My count tells me that it’s still the same day, but I don’t think it is.  It’s been so hard to focus; I wonder if I’ve interrupted my counting sub-process somehow.

Frag. 

I needed that.

Well, I’ll just start over from here, I guess.

Primus, knows how long it’s actually been.  I want it to be a couple hundred years, but I don’t dare hope for that much.

~~~

YEAR NINETY-NINE, DAY TWO HUNDRED THIRTEEN

I think maybe I should reactivate my daily entries from the beginning starting tomorrow.  I was hoping to last a bit longer than a hundred years, but, well, frag it.  I need  _ something _ to keep me from losing my mind.  I’ll just have to find something else to work with afterwards.

~~~

YEAR ONE HUNDRED, DAY ONE

[ _ Replaying archives] _

Okay.  This ain’t so bad.  I mean, I’m absent one body – I can’t see or hear, feel or taste or touch or smell.  It’s like my worst nightmare come to life, and y’know?  Can’t say what I was ever scared for.  I mean, the spark stabilizers are probably to thank for that.  Don’t want the prisoner’s spark to implode from the effort of overcompensating for the lack of a frame . . .

. . .

~~~

YEAR ONE HUNDRED ONE, DAY ONE

[ _ Replaying archives _ ]

One year!  One year, you old-model, long-fractured, defective snapped-off frag-sticks!  Take  _ that _ , Shockwave!!!  I survived a whole slagging  _ year _ !  I can survive another twenty-six thousand nine hundred ninety-nine!  I may be an empty husk of a mech by the end of it (hey, my frame’s  _ already  _ an empty husk, isn’t that funny?  I mean, it would be if it still existed . . .), but yeah.  I’m gonna win.  And then I’m gonna come for you, and I am going to remind you exactly why I was so feared in Kaon’s underground.  You’ll come to understand why no one ever crossed Onslaught in his prime. 

. . .

~~~

YEAR ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-ONE, DAY FORTY-EIGHT

[ _ Replaying archives _ ]

. . . Frag!  Frag!  Frag!  Frag!  Frag!  Frag! . . .

~~~

YEAR ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-TWO, DAY FORTY-NINE

[ _ Replaying archives _ ]

Primus, I want to go home.  I want to go home.  I want to go home.  I want to go home.  Just let me go home.  I want to go home.  Where even is home?  Who cares?  Just take me there.

. . .

_ << Wait, what? >> _

~~~

YEAR ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-THREE, DAY TWELVE

[ _ Replaying archives _ ]

Blast Off, please help me.  You saved me once before.  Please, you know I hate to beg, but please.  I just . . . I can’t do this on my own anymore.  Blast Off?  Where are you?

_ Primus, _ I need you.

. . .

_ << Why the frag are these dates so off? >> _

~~~

YEAR ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-SEVEN, DAY ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-EIGHT

[ _ Replaying archives _ ]

. . .

. . .

. . .

_ << Holy frag!  That was fourteen years of just sitting there, unthinking!  How long does this last?  This is getting kinda boring . . . >> _

~~~

YEAR ONE HUNDRED FIFTY, DAY TWO HUNDRED TWO

[ _ Replaying archives _ ]

In conclusion, two days of panic were not enough to break the box.  It felt like a lot longer, somehow.  I don’t think I could have handled any more.  I don’t . . . I don’t feel so good.

Maybe I should . . .

_ << Thank fucking Primus! >> _

~~~

YEAR ONE HUNDRED FIFTY, DAY TWO HUNDRED THREE

I need to . . . wow, I need to take a break.  How many days did I fucking lose there?  Was that because I was panicking, or was there more to it?  What the frag is even going on?

. . .

Wow.  I’ve been spending more time in this box than I thought.  I guess that’s a good thing, but . . . How often am I losing my count, I wonder?  What’s the point of keeping the damn thing if I can’t, y’know,  _ keep _ it?

Frag it all, who cares?

~~~

YEAR FIVE HUNDRED, DAY ONE?

Okay, I’ve relived the footage a couple times now, and each time I do, I somehow seem to be losing even more time, starting from the entry marked Year Twenty-One, Day Forty-Eight.  Maybe I forced a malfunction after all.  If I can keep  _ this _ up, twenty-seven thousand years will pass in no time, right?

Heh.  Heheheh.  Heh.

Well, I guess it’s worth another read through.

~~~

YEAR FIVE HUNDRED, DAY TWO

[ _ Replaying archives] _

Okay.  This ain’t so bad.  << _ HAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!>>   _ I mean, I’m absent one body – I can’t see or hear, feel or taste or touch or smell.  It’s like my worst nightmare come to life, and y’know?  Can’t say what I was ever scared for.  I mean, the spark stabilizers are probably to thank for that.  Don’t want the prisoner’s spark to implode from the effort of overcompensating for the lack of a frame . . .  << _ Don’t we?  HAHAH!  Primus, Vortex, I forgot how cute you were in the beginning!  So young, so naïve, so fucking  _ stupid!>>

To be honest, I’m not entirely sure why I can still think at all.  I’m pretty sure my brain module was scrapped along with the rest of my frame.  Guess the spark is where the personality lies.  Who needs a brain?   _ <<Asking the real questions in life.  I miss this.>> _

Well, that or the box’s got a built-in brain in addition to all the other shit it does.  Primus, I hate this box.  This is gonna be a long confinement.  Twenty-seven thousand years for profiteering behind Lord Megatron’s back.  << _ Is that what we did?  Damn, I’d forgotten.  Punishment seems a bit much, in retrospect.  Thanks, Shockwave>>.   _ It’s not like the walking scrap sucker’s even still around.  Been gone for what?  A million years now?  Time for Shockers to move on.  But nah.  Still gotta play the loyalist – _ Primus _ , get over yourself.

Ugh.   _ <<I feel you here.>> _

It’s been what, ten minutes?  I guess?  It’s hard to tell without a frame.  I swear, I’m never gonna take my frame for granted again.  Gonna treat that thing right.  Take it flying more often, stretch my rotors, eat well, sleep well, get all the interface I can get.  Yeah.  I mean, flying aside, I was doing all that before.  Not a lot of room for flying in the Underground.  Or the aboveground really.  You ain’t in a flyer-friendly city, you may as well be grounded.  << _. . . I just made myself sad. >> _

Not that I hated Kaon.  Kaon was nice.  Have a lot of good memories of Kaon.  Good people.  I mean, they were all a bunch of criminals and thugs, but they were  _ my _ criminals and thugs.  They know how to treat a down-on-his-luck baby warframe on the run.   _ <<This was a bad idea.  I miss Kaon.>> _

And I mean, life with Onslaught was nice too.  So many doors opening.  So much  _ power _ .  There was a time when Ons was the most powerful mech on Cybertron, I’d reckon – certainly more so than any senator, and as his left arm, I got to reap the benefits.   _ <<Frag, I – I think, if I had a body, I’d be crying right now.  How fucked is that?>> _

Maybe we got a bit too complacent though?  We shoulda realized that nothing lasts forever, least of all power.  No one can sustain a life at the top.  We had our time in the sun.  Not that Ons was ready to let go of his glory days.  And Blasters and me?  Well, we were along for the ride.  And Brawl.  And Swindle, apparently.  Whoda thunk  _ Swindle _ of all mechs, would get himself wrapped up in our drama.  Almost makes the whole thing worth it.  << _ No.  It really doesn’t.>> _

. . .

Primus, this is boring.  << _ Understatement of the fucking millennium.>> _

It’s like being locked up in that damn tower all over again.  << _ No it’s not.>>   _ Only worse.  << _ Yes, it is.>>   _ At least I had datapads up there.   _ <<What I wouldn’t give for some datapads right now.>>   _ I mean, you can only reread every book Helex can access so many times before it loses its appeal.   _ <<Helex was nice.  I should think about it more often.>>   _ But the guards were interesting to – er, look at.  << _ I pray for more guards.  Could have a lovely time with them.  No one can resist a nubile little rotary mech.  So cute.  So exotic.  So bangable!>>   _ Bah!  Stupid baby Vortex didn’t know how to make the most of a good situation.  << _ Oh my dear, sweet child.  You don’t even know.>>   _ I never woulda wasted the opportunity  _ now _ .  Every prison I’ve been in since had been  _ way _ more fun.  Cell mates, guards, security cameras – there’s always  _ someone  _ to get a rise out of.  << _ . . . I hate this.  I hate this, and I hate  _ you _. >> _

Well, except this time.  Leave it to Shockwave to fuck up a good thing.  << _ I wish I could even be mad at Shockwave.  I just . . . ugh.>> _

Eh, anyway, I’ve been in solitary confinement before.  This – I mean, it’s a little  _ more _ solitary, little more confining, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.  << _ HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!>> _  I just gotta work through it.  Twenty-seven thousand years.  That’s nothing.  The end is in sight.  Run some sub-processes, get a count going. It’ll be easy.  Only fifteen billion, twenty-two million, seven hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety minutes more to go.  << _ Fourteen billion, seven hundred forty-four million, five hundred ninety-four thousand, eight hundred now.  Barely a drop in the damn bucket.>> _

~~~

YEAR ONE THOUSAND TWO HUNDRED TWENTY-SIX, DAY TWO HUNDRED

Wow, that lost time really does catch up with you.  Thank Primus for small mercies.  And that’s another round of journal entries done.  And more importantly, my first thousand years!  Yay!  Baby’s been all locked up for a whole millennium.  Twenty- _ six _ more to go.  Well, twenty-five point eight, but who’s counting?

I made a joke, see?

Hahahah!

You’re so funny, Vortex.

And a fragging genius!

Each time I reread the journal entries, I kill exponentially more time.  Next read-through will take me to, factoring in time lost, probably something like twenty-five hundred years?  Well, let’s get cracking!

~~~

YEAR THREE THOUSAND TWO HUNDRED SIXTY-NINE, DAY FOURTEEN

[ _ Replaying archives] _

Okay ###  << _ HAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!>>   _ I mean, I’m absent one body – I can’t see or hear, feel or taste or touch or smell.  It’s like my worst nightmare come to life, and y’know?  Can’t say what I was ever scared for ### Don’t want the prisoner’s spark to implode from the effort of overcompensating for the lack of a frame ##  << _ Don’t we?  HAHAH!  Primus, Vortex, I forgot how cute you were in the beginning!  So young, so naïve, so fucking  _ stupid!>>

To be honest, I’m not entirely sure why I can still think at all ### Who needs a brain?   _ <<Asking the real questions in life.  I miss this.>> _

. . . Twenty-seven thousand years for profiteering behind Lord Megatron’s back.  << _ Is that what we did?  Damn, I’d forgotten.  Punishment seems a bit much, in retrospect.  Thanks, Shockwave>>. _

Ugh.   _ <<I feel you here.>> _

. . . Yeah.  I mean, flying aside, I was doing all that before.  Not a lot of room for flying in the Underground.  Or the aboveground really ### << _. . . I just made myself sad. >> _

_. . .   <<This was a bad idea.  I miss Kaon.>> _

And I mean, life with Onslaught was nice too #### and as his left arm, I got to reap the benefits.   _ <<Frag, I – I think, if I had a body, I’d be crying right now.  How fucked is that?>> _

#####  We shoulda realized that nothing lasts forever, least of all power.  No one can sustain a life at the top.  We had our time in the sun.  . . . And Brawl.  And Swindle, apparently ## Almost makes the whole thing worth it.  << _ No.  It really doesn’t.>> _

#####

_ <<Understatement of the Primus-scrapped millennium.>> _

It’s like being locked up in that damn tower all over again.   _ <<No it’s not.>>  # _ << _ Yes, it is>> ##. <<What I wouldn’t give for some datapads right now _ .>> ### <<H _ elex was nice.  I should think about it more often.>> ## <<I pray for more guards.  Could have a lovely time with them.  No one can resist a nubile little rotary mech.  So cute.  So exotic.  So bangable!>> # <<Oh my dear, sweet child.  You don’t even know.>> _ ## << _ . . . I hate this.  I hate this, and I hate  _ you _. >> _

. . .  Leave it to Shockwave to fuck up a good thing.  << _ I wish I could even be mad at Shockwave.  I just . . . ugh.>> _

Eh, anyway, I’ve been in solitary confinement before.  This – I mean, it’s a little  _ more _ solitary, little more confining, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.  << _ HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!>> _  I just gotta work through it.  Twenty-seven thousand years.  That’s nothing.  The end is in sight.  Run some sub-processes, get a count going. It’ll be easy.  Only fifteen billion, twenty-two million, seven hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety minutes more to go.  << _ Fourteen billion, seven hundred forty-four million, five hundred ninety-four thousand, eight hundred now.  Barely a drop in the damn bucket.>> _

. . .

_ <<What?>> _

~~~

YEAR FIVE THOUSAND FOUR HUNDRED SIXTEEN, DAY FIFTY

Something isn’t right here.  I just finished the rewatch but it seems like all of the older data is somehow becoming corrupted?  I . . . I don’t – I can’t deal with this!  I  _ need _ that data!  One more time.  I’ll investigate one more time!  I can’t lose it!  I  _ can’t _ !!!

~~~

YEAR FIVE THOUSAND FOUR HUNDRED SIXTEEN, DAY FIFTY-ONE 

[ _ Replaying data] _

Okay . . .  It’s like my worst nightmare come to life, and y’know?  I was scared . . . want the prisoner’s spark to implode from the effort of overcompensating for the lack of a frame . . .

. . . why I can still think at all.  Who needs a brain?

Twenty-seven thousand years . . . 

Ugh. 

#####

. . .  Not a lot of room for flying in the Underground.  Or the aboveground really. 

And I mean, life with Onslaught was nice . . . his left arm ## got to reap the benefits.

We shoulda realized that nothing lasts forever ### worth it.

############

Eh, anyway . . . I can’t handle it.  Twenty-seven thousand years.  Only fifteen billion, twenty-two million, seven hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety minutes more to go. 

~~~

YEAR FIVE THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED SIX, DAY EIGHTY

Yep, they’re all like this.  Every fragging file.  Took me a fraction of the time to run through them all.  Frag, no!  Everything is corrupted.

. . .

. . .

. . .

Are they the  _ only _ things that I’ve corrupted?  Primus, I hope not.

~~~

YEAR FIVE THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED SIX, DAY NINETY-NINE

Helex.  Yeah.  Let’s talk about Helex!

I was born in Helex.  There were five medic-class rotary mechs in my batch.  At the beginning, anyway.  If I try  _ really _ hard, I can remember their faces – that’s a good sign.  We were roughhousing – baby rotaries do that, y’know?  All war frames do.  It’s typically encouraged by the caretakers.  And, as with most mech classifications, our most unique features – rotors, in our case, were the first to develop. 

I remember spinning them around, trying to test ‘em out.  Couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old at the time, but I spun my rotors, and the next thing I knew, two of my batchmates were dead.  One had been blasted through a window – I couldn’t see him, but I can’t imagine it was pretty.  The other had been slammed into a wall and exploded on impact.  I remember that clearly.  I remember the smell of the energon.  I remember it splattering; it got on me.  And I remember trying to go to him, getting him to play with me some more, not understanding why he wasn’t moving.

Good times.

I remember my tower.  Where they locked me up.  It was a safety precaution, they told me.  Not enough circulation up there to get much wind going.  They’d take me to the labs, run the tests, simulations, then put me right back.  If I try really hard, I can smell the pungent oil that ran their machines.  And the sweet, sharp scent the lead scientist liked to smother herself in to mask it.  Hahah.  Frag the lot of them.

So far so good.

I remember going into battle for the first time, how excited I was that I would finally get to be a real soldier, that I would finally get to  _ fly _ .  I remember the feel of the cool air on my plating – fresh, odorless sky flowing over my vents.  It was heaven! 

And then they told me I was just a weapon, not a real soldier.  They put me back in a box. (always fucking  _ boxes!) _  Can’t use him until we’re ready.  It’s too risky.

Too risky.  Yep.  But that’s their own damn fault.

Sure, I followed orders just long enough to wipe out those poor, stupid organics we were opposing (what were they called?  I can’t remember.  Is that ‘cause of the box, or simply the natural corrosion of long-term memory files?  Further research required.), before turning on  _ them _ .  Hahah!  Oh, that was brilliant!  Wiped out a quarter of our own forces before they managed to reel me in, put me back in my box ( _ was _ it a box?  I can’t imagine I would fit into a box.  Maybe it was something else? _ ) _ , send me home.

But I’d tasted freedom, and I wanted more.

So I escaped.  All the way to Kaon’s underground, where I experienced so many things!  Most mechs down their hated their lot in life.  They had dead optics, dull, flaky plating, sunken in protoforms and a general hopelessness about them.  But not me.  For the first time in my life, I was living!  And I wanted to experience  _ everything! _

Syk and circuit boosters?  Sign me up!  The pleasurebot life, risks and all?  You bet your sweet aft!  I didn’t mind the beatings, I didn’t mind the starvation.  I stole what I could, killed where I had the chance, and slept my way to financial security.  Didn’t see a lot of my frametype in Kaon; it wasn’t hard to find clients.

And then the six-armed mech happened.

. . .

What did he look like again?  I know he had six arms, ‘cause he held me down with them.  And I know he had red optics; I  _ definitely _ remember the optics . . . but . . . I feel like he must have been big, but I don’t  . . . I don’t know.  This can’t just be the fog of memory.  This was a turning point in my life, and I can’t remember it clearly.  I . . .

That’s when I met Blast Off . . .

What did he look like again? 

. . .

I know he smelled of ozone and high grade – of affluence, tangy and acidic.  And clean.  Always clean.  It was never a strong smell.  He spent a lot of time in the washracks, trying to wash it off, but no one ever could hide from my olfactory sensors.  Blast Off’s smell was the best smell a bot could smell . . .

But . . .

What did he  _ look _ like?  I think he was brown but . . . what color were his optics?  I know they weren’t red, ‘cause  _ I _ had red optics (I did, didn’t I?), and I know we had different color optics.  Were they blue?  Grey?  Frag, I can’t . . .

What about Onslaught?  He was . . . he was tall, cause I always had to crane my neck to meet his  . . . whatever color his optics were.  Maybe he had a visor?  He had turrets, I think?  And so did Brawl.  Brawl also had a really comfortable little divot that was nice to sleep in.  I know ‘cause I rewatched that journal entry over and over again.  And then there was . . .

Uh. 

_ Was _ there someone else?

No.  It was always just the four of us.

Frag it.  I need to rest.

~~~

YEAR TEN EIGHTY-ONE, DAY SIX

New format again.  The date is getting too hard to write.

I’ve made it ten thousand years.

I think.

I don’t know how much time I’ve killed, to be honest.  I don’t dare rewatch my journal entries, for fear of corrupting them further.  Instead, I’ve been trying to catalogue all of the memories from the first three thousand years of my life, before I forget anything else.

I . . . I think I’ve been losing time again.  I keep noticing these periods where I just, I just go blank, and I realize I’m no longer counting, and it’s like, ‘Vortex, get a hold of yourself!’  And then I start counting again but . . .

Do sparks need to recharge?  I know that frames do, but sparks?

Or maybe ten thousand years is too much for the equipment.

I wonder what’s changed on the outside. 

I wonder if Shockwave remembers we’re in here.

I wonder if Shockwave is alive . . .

Well,  _ there’s _ a scary thought.

Maybe . . . maybe let’s just focus on the positive for now . . .

Yeah . . .

~~~

YEAR TEN NINE NINETY-NINE, DAY NINETY-SIX

The war’s gotta be over by now, I’m sure.  Even Shockwave’s not that incompetent. 

Shockwave . . . he’s – he’s the guy in charge; the guy who put us in here.  He always smells really sterile, like he’s spent too long bathing in disinfectant.  It’s gross.

But he . . . he’s the leader of the . . . whatever we called ourselves.  The Shocksters or Cyclopses or Deceptidrives or something stupid like that, I’m sure.  Why was I part of the team?  Because Ons was, I think. 

Ons is my leader.  He is big and smart and an aft.  Smells like cleanliness.  Bit too fond of the fresh solvents.  What’s with people I hate obsessively hiding their smell?  Like what, they’re too good to have fuel flowing through their lines?  Come  _ on _ !

Hmm, apparently I was good at smelling things.  I don’t remember paying much attention to scents before, but they’re easier to remember than the visual cues for some reason.  I don’t remember what people look like anymore.  I don’t even remember what  _ I _ looked like.  Sometimes I forget that there was a time when I actually had a frame.

. . .

The war is probably over.  No war could last for so long.

I bet Cybertron is nice.  I bet the sky is nice.  I wanna go flying.  I haven’t flown all that much, but I bet I’d be good at it. 

I wonder if there will be a place for me when I get back?  Maybe there are no more bots.  Maybe we’re all organic now?

What would that look like?

. . . 

I don’t know.  Probably would smell pretty bad though.

~~~

YEAR FIFTEEN FIFTEEN FIFTEEN FIFTEEN FIFTEEN FIFTEEN

I don’t know anymore.  There’s no point in trying to keep up with the date.  I keep passing out for longer and longer periods of time.  I don’t know what it means, but somehow, I hope that one day I just pass out and never wake up. 

I can’t control it.

I wish I could control it.

. . .

. . .

. . .

~~~

YEAR WHO GIVES A FUCK?  DAY I DON’T KNOW

Ons, Blast Off, Divet. 

Ons, Blast Off Divet.

Ons, Blast Off, Divet.

I don’t want to forget.  I’m losing everything else.  I don’t want to forget them.  If I just keep saying their names, maybe I can hold on.

Ons, Blast Off, Divet.

Ons, Blast Off, Divet.

~~~

YEAR ????, DAY ?????

Ons, Blast Off

Ons, Blast Off

Ons, Blast Off

. . .

~~~

YEAR ???????????, DAY ?

Blast Off

Blast Off

Blast Off

. . .

Is that right?

I feel like I had more than one friend. 

Oh well.

. . .

. . .

Wait . . . Blast Off . . . I know Blast Off, but . . .

What was  _ my  _ name?

Was  _ I _ Blast Off?

_ Fuck. _

~~~

DAY 1

I’ve decided I’m starting over.  I think I made it to 15,000 years or so.  It will be easier to count at this point.  I don’t know why it matters so much.  Maybe it just makes me feel like I have control over . . . anything.

I don’t know who I am, or who I was.  I don’t know why I’m here.  And I don’t know what I possibly could have done to deserve being imprisoned like this, though I know that it’s punishment.  I must have been very bad.  I think that I was.  I feel like I am.  Bad.  I know I’ve killed mechs before.  I think I even enjoyed it.  I think I did it for fun – to see the look on their faces, to hear their screams of despair, to feel their spark gutter out around my hands.

Funny.  The words remain, but I can’t even imagine what any of that would be like.  I know that it made me happy at one point.  But now?  I don’t know why.  I don’t remember what things looked like.  I don’t remember hearing things, or feeling things.  I know I loved interfacing, but I can’t even remember what it felt like. 

I don’t . . . remember.

Primus, I don’t want to forget.

~~~

YEAR SEVENTY-SEVEN, DAY SEVENTY-SEVEN

. . .

Primus, I don’t want to forget.

Primus, I don’t want to forget.

Primus, I don’t want to forget.

. . .

~~~

YEAR ONE HUNDRED, DAY ONE

Maybe I’ll rewatch all my files.  Why did I stop rewatching my files?  I should rewatch my files.

. . .

~~~

YEAR ONE HUNDRED, DAY TWO

[ _ Replaying archives] _

######################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################################

~~~

YEAR SIX HUNDRED SIXTY-EIGHT, DAY FOURTEEN

[ _ Replaying archives] _

##################################  _ need _ that data!  One more time.  I’ll investigate one more time!  I can’t lose it!  I  _ can’t _ !!!

_ << . . . _

_ << . . . _

_ << . . . _

_ << Huh? _

YEAR SIX HUNDRED SIXTY-EIGHT, DAY EIGHTY-THREE

[ _ Replaying archives] _

. . .

_ Was _ there someone else?

No.  It was always just the four of us.

Frag it.  I need to rest.

<< _ Words!  I have words again!  Oh sweet Primus!  I’ve missed the feel of words!  I think everything from here on in shouldn’t be too corrupted. >> _

~~~

YEAR TWELVE O’SEVEN, DAY TWO HUNDRED

I spoke too soon.  There hasn’t been a damn thing in the last six hundred entries. 

Primus, I feel . . . so tired.

. . .

. . .

~~~

YEAR 27,000, DAY 27,000

27,000 years

27,000 years

27,000 years

. . .

~~~

27,000 27,000, 27,000 27,000

27,000

27,000

. . .

~~~

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . .

~~~

What? 

What was that?

That was . . . that was different! 

That was not the same!!

I feel different?

Why do I feel different?!

What is happening?!?!

Different things don’t happen!!!!!!!

NOTHING CHANGES!!!

NoTHING ChanGES EVERytHInG StayS The SaMe!!!!

but i feel . . . different

but i feel

i feel

i . . .

. . .

~~~

I wasn’t imagining it.  Something really  _ did _ change!  I don’t know what it is, but I feel different.  I feel . . . cold.  I think I feel cold.  How do I feel cold?  I’m just a spark.  Sparks don’t have sensory inputs.  Sparks don’t have brain modules to process said sensory information.  They’re just pseudo-mystical balls of floating energy and emotion.  So why then do I feel cold?

WHY DO I FEEL COLD?!?!?!

I . . . I feel . . .

What is happening to me???

~~~

I think I have a body again.  I must.  That’s the only explanation for why I can feel the cold.  It’s a breeze.  I can feel a breeze.  And I can feel hands.  I think they are hands?  They are touching my frame.  Poking and prodding me, outside, inside.  Wherever.

I’m not moving.  Slag, I feel so disconnected.  What’s the point of having a frame if you can’t move it?

. . .

No.  One thing at a time.  I have a frame again.  They’re pulling me out of this damned box. 

. . .

_ Vortex . . . _

Yes!  Me, Vortex – I’ve been in a box.  Has it been twenty-seven thousand years?  Did I really survive twenty-seven thousand years in that box???

Primus, okay.  This is all . . . this is all a bit much.

_ I’m Vortex!  I’m Vortex!! _

I think the stabilizers in the box were keeping my spark at a relatively consistent level for all this time.  But if I’m back in my frame . . . then something else must be doing it.  Having stimuli after being sensory-deprived for so long is already pretty overwhelming.  I’m panicking.   _ I’M _ panicking.  I don’t think I’m one for panic. 

_ Heheh, Vortex doesn’t panic!!!!  HAHA! _

Y’know.  When I’m not stuck in a box.

. . .

. . .

. . .

Primus,  _ why am I stuck in a box?!  What did I do to be stuck in a box?!?! _

No. 

I’m not in a box.

I am in my body.

They’re just . . . they’re just easing me into it so I don’t overload my spark too soon.  It would suck to survive twenty-seven thousand years is a box . . .

. . . .

. . .

. . .

. . . and die five seconds after coming back online.

Yes.  I can wait.  I’ve waited twenty-seven thousand years.  I can wait a little longer.

~~~

I can hear things!  People!!!  I can smell too, but there are so many smells in this room, it’s impossible to single anything out.  I think I can smell Blast Off.  Blast Off . . .

Fuck Blast Off. 

Who’s Blast Off?

I know  _ I’m _ not Blast Off, at least.

I dunno  _ who  _ that frag hole is, but he can choke on a spike.  Ons’s spike. 

. . .

Primus, I still can’t remember who anyone is.

Is Ons the one with the high, screechy voice?  I think I’ve heard it before, but I can’t really place it.  Like, he sounds like a colossal aft, so it’s probably Ons.  Is that even his name?  ‘Ons’ is kind of a weird name. 

It’s probably not his name.

. . .

Anyway, the point is, I can hear.  I can’t really make out words, but I can  _ hear _ , and  _ oh _ it feels good to hear!  It feels good to feel!  It feels good to be  _ alive _ !!!

Primus, I’m getting impatient.  I just . . . I swear, the first thing I’m gonna do is reach into some poor schmuck’s throat and pull out his wiring.  Nothing really compares to the feeling of a cluster of delicate wires all bunched up in your hands – the sparks of electricity at the disconnection, the soft gurgle as the mech chokes on his own energon . . .

It’s good to be alive!

~~~

They say I’m progressing nicely.  They’ll probably wake me up any day now!  I’ve never been more excited!  I’m not even annoyed that everyone else woke up before me.  Blast Off was first, unsurprisingly.  I can smell him all the damn time; I think he’s watching me.  He never says anything, but he’s definitely in here more often than makes sense.  Weirdo.

He’s always been kind of an odd one.  All like, protective.  He’s like this with Onslaught and Brawl too – I think shuttles are just super territorial, but I’m less imposing than the others are, so I get the brunt of that watchful shuttle optic.  Never been sure how to feel about that.

Hah!  ‘Never.’

I don’t know why it is, exactly, but my memories are starting to come back to me.  Maybe just being surrounded by people and sensations is sort of . . . acting as a reminder?  Or maybe having an actual brain module again instead of just a box makes accessing my backup drives easier?  They must have been stored with the box.  And I can actually like, easily save new data too.  It’s great.   _ New _ data!  Imagine!!

Um . . . Onslaught and Brawl are here.  Brawl hasn’t stopped stomping around and yelling since he woke up.  The screechy guy (still can’t put a name to the voice) seems displeased by it, but I think Brawl is just happy to have a body again.  Who can blame him? 

Onslaught comes in every so often.  Sits by my med slab.  Talks to me.  All complaints and demands, but they lack his usual bite.  I think he’s worried.  Don’t know why he’s worried.  This makes sense.  I’ve always been the most responsive to sensory input; it makes sense that it’s taken me longer to adjust. 

Still . . . it  _ is _ taking a long time.

Though, I’ve found something out.  Hehehe, yeah.  It’s a bit of a shocker.

We’ve been asleep for THREE MILLION YEARS!!!

Like, what in the sweet slag is –  _ how _ ?!  How has it been three million years????? 

I was . . .

For so long???

But . . .

My count never got anywhere  _ near  _ that . . .

My . . .

My count?

My what?

. . .

. . .

So uh, yeah. 

Err, and Swindle’s here too.  Can’t believe I forgot about Swindle.

Who am I kidding; of course I can!  That pathetic little spike socket has been like, hiding under tables and in closets and refusing to talk to anyone.  Maybe  _ he _ shoulda stayed asleep a little longer too.  Idiot.

Yeah . . .

Why does  _ Swindle _ of all mechs get to stay awake, while  _ I _ have to be asleep?  I’m completely sane!  Come  _ on! _

I can’t hold out much longer . . .

~~~

Something feels . . . not right.

I have most of my senses back.  I’ve acclimated to most of them.  I’m pretty sure, if they’d just let me online my optics and reactivate my mobility center, I’d be back to my pre-box . . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

Well, back to myself, anyway.

But I’m  _ not _ back to myself.  I feel  _ different _ , in a way that has nothing to do with . . .  _ confinement.   _ Like, it feels like there’s something in my head.  No.  Like there’s  _ someone _ in my head.  Or some _ ones _ .  Like, I’ve got my vitals running in there – operating at 94% capacity, thank you very much!  But like, I can see others too.  Onslaught’s got a limp in his left leg, due to a defect in the vehicle Starscream (Onslaught told me the name of the screechy guy.  I didn’t figure it out this time.  Makes sense, I guess.  I never met him face-to-face before), but yeah, Starscream built our new frames from disused Earth vehicles.  (Earth is the planet we are on now.  That’s cool, I guess.  Would explain why the air feels so thick and wet.  Apparently there’s a lot of dihydrogen monoxide in the atmosphere – just like that shit in Onslaught’s fountain! . . . Why is it so hard to maintain a train of thought?)

Um, yeah.

I can see Ons’s physical status.  And Blast Off.  And Brawl and Swindle too.  I can see where they are.  I can feel what they’re feeling, at least to an extent.  And I’m pretty sure they’re in the same boat.

Like, I know I haven’t had a body for three million years, but this?  This isn’t right.  I know for a  _ fact _ that I was not like, psychically connected with my teammates.

Or Swindle.

I figure that, if Starscream was the one who rebuilt us, then he probably did something  _ else _ while he was in there.  I’ve got all of this weird coding in my head that I haven’t had a chance to properly investigate.  I’ve never seen anything like it before; I can say  _ that _ much.  And I mean, Shockwave clearly forgot about us, but Starscream went out of his way to hunt us down.  He pulled us from the detention center.  And from what I know of him, there’s no way he did it out of the goodness of his spark.  He’s got plans for us, and I get the feeling they ain’t very altruistic.

Frag it, who cares?

~~~

They’re finally bringing me online!  They’re finally bringing me online!!!  Primus, I can’t wait!

. . .

Don’t get too excited, Vortex.  You don’t want them to change their minds.

But no!  Starscream’s at the terminal by my head, smelling like someone spilled twelve gallons of high grade in the medbay . . . which is a bit weird, I acknowledge, but I figure he spends a lot of time in med bays, given his relationship with ol’ Megs.  And the smell clings to you like a scraplet infestation.

I feel more alert.  Less foggy.  I can  _ definitely  _ read the stats on my old buddies.  Onslaught is anxious – his spark is pulsing at 62 fpn.  Careful Ons, don’t overload the damn thing on  _ my _ account!

Blast Off has better control of his spark, but I can feel his optics on me.  And I can  _ definitely _ still smell him.  He’s here.  Watching.  Like always.

And I don’t need a strong sense of smell or a weird psychic link to know that Brawl is in here too.  Guy won’t shut up about all the things we’re gonna do once I’m up and about.

. . .

Okay, I don’t actually  _ mind _ , but give me a chance to adjust, at least!

And Swindle is . . . not here.  He’s still hiding in some dark corner.  I’d think it weirder if not for what we’ve all just been through.

But it’s almost over.

My energon flow is quickening.  My frame is buzzing with energy.  I feel warm, alive.  I can move!  I can twitch my fingers, and my outer rotors.  The inner are pinned beneath me, which is a pain, but I’ll fix that soon enough.  And there!  Those are my optical sensors!  They’re no longer disabled!  I got the rest of my senses back; soon I’ll be able to  _ see _ too! 

Primus, okay . . . I’m . . . I’m a little nervous.

Oh, frag easing into it.  Let’s do this.

. . .

It’s not Onslaught’s face I see first.  Or Brawl’s.  Or Blast Off’s.

Starscream is leaning over me, his chest-mounted fans blasting the fumes of recently-consumed high grade in my face.  His handsome visage is smiling down at me, gleaming red optics the first thing I see in three million years.  He opens his mouth, flashing his perfect, white dentae, and he says,

“Welcome to my team, Vortex.”

Well, I can’t imagine this is good, but whatever comes next, it can’t be worse than my box.

  
  



End file.
